


Another Chance To Get It Right

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Mention of Past Characters Deaths, Parenting Challenges, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after Neal is killed while working for the FBI, Peter and El discover that a four-year-old son exists. They eagerly take on the task of raising Neal’s child, but find that their efforts are fraught with ups and downs. A story that is sometimes poignant, but ultimately an uplifting tribute to those who have been left behind to cope with loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Shocking Revelation

    

     It had been over a year since that fateful winter afternoon. Peter relived it often, sometimes night after night, in his tormented dreams. Mercifully, there were the occasional weeks when it seemed to be getting better, but then the stress at work would mount yet again, and the dreams would return. In those nightmares, Peter would see Neal fall at the hands of a White Collar suspect that they were in the process of trying to arrest. He would hold his CI in his arms and look into those clear blue eyes, trying not to notice the red blood flowing through fingers that were applying frantic pressure to Neal’s chest. He could hear himself pleading over and over again, _“Stay with me, Neal. Please stay with me!”_

     As much as Neal wanted to stay, some things were just beyond the conman’s remarkable abilities, and Peter watched in horror as Neal slowly lost focus and left him. Peter continued to hold Neal close, even as the paramedics respectfully shut those eyes that no longer saw Peter.

     People who consider themselves wise like to trot out that old adage: _“Time heals all wounds.”_   In Peter’s opinion, time does not heal wounds; it just forms a scar over them. However, at inopportune times, the tremendous ache of loss is still capable of rearing its ugly head and making that scar throb. Today was no exception; the throbbing, predicated by unexpected incredible information, was excruciating.

     Peter had just received a call from an attorney with an almost unpronounceable Greek name, and an accent that was just as hard to understand. This lawyer was calling Peter from some little Greek isle that Peter would have to look up later on the Internet. The information that he had imparted hit the agent like a sledgehammer and left him reeling. Peter immediately called El and asked her to meet him at home without elaborating.

     El, with a myriad of dire fears uppermost in her mind, arrived at the townhouse almost as Peter was stepping in the door. From the tone of his voice on the phone, El knew better than to immediately pepper him with questions while they were miles apart. She needed to be there physically, face to face, to deal with whatever “this” was. She made coffee for them both, and then sat across from her beloved husband, who was stretched as tight as a drum. “Tell me,” she started the conversation with a soft inquiry. Peter took a deep breath and extricated a sheet of paper from his inner jacket pocket. He cleared his dry throat and forced out the surreal words.

     “Today, out of the blue, I received a transatlantic phone call from a Greek lawyer named Anatole Papageorgiou. He was calling from this little isolated Greek Island—Anafi—that is not far from Santorini, but is really off the beaten path and extremely hard to reach. I know, because I researched it on the Net. Anyway, this lawyer informed me that he was the personal representative for Alexandra Hunter, an American expatriate, who had resided in a villa that overlooked the Aegean Sea. She had bought the villa almost four years ago when she suddenly arrived, very alone and very pregnant. According to Mr. Papageorgiou, he was the attorney of record for the purchase of the villa, and has been handling her rather considerable estate ever since. He then very sadly informed me that Ms. Hunter had been killed in an auto accident two months ago.

     As executor of her will and estate, he has been urgently trying to find a next of kin, but is coming up empty. The most pressing issue is the fate of Ms. Hunter’s four-year-old son, who is, apparently, her sole heir. Mr. Papageorgiou has since located the boy’s birth certificate in Ms. Hunter’s effects. Her child’s name is Neal George Caffrey Jr, and the father listed is Neal George Caffrey Senior. The lawyer continued his digging and found that the father, once a resident of New York City, is also deceased, having been killed while working with the New York White Collar Division of the FBI. I was listed as his immediate supervisor, so Mr. Papageorgiou was hoping that I might be able to help him locate a distant relative in the United States. The Greek attorney desperately wants to avoid placing this young child in foster care until he becomes of age. However, that would be the alternative if no one could be found. In the meantime, a rather substantial fortune has been put into a trust for him, and Mr. Papageorgiou is managing that trust with due diligence.

     El sat transfixed as Peter told this story, almost in a robotic monotone. Both husband and wife seemed to be practically in shock while trying to absorb the incredulous facts. Neal had a son! He had a son with Alex! Peter knew in his heart that Alex had never told Neal. Anklet or not, if Neal knew of the child’s existence, he would have moved heaven and earth to see his son and claim him. He simply couldn’t have known.

     Peter looked deeply into El’s eyes, asking the unspoken question. After ten years of marriage, both partners could read each other’s thoughts without a single word uttered. “You want Neal’s child to be with us, don’t you,” El calmly voiced aloud.

     Peter simply raised his eyebrows and a sad little smile formed on his lips. “How could I not want him here with us, El? He does not deserve to live the next decade and a half without loving people around him—people who will cherish him, people who knew and loved his father, people who ultimately lost his father and miss him terribly. He needs people around him who can tell him about his Dad and what a truly good-hearted, intelligent, beautiful person he was.”

     Peter’s eyes grew misty as he continued. “Having Neal’s son here would be as if a little bit of our Neal was coming back to us.” El’s unspoken acceptance was a shared embrace as well as shared tears.

 

**********

 

     The telephone correspondence between the Greek attorney and Peter became almost a daily exchange. As Peter had surmised, the young boy held dual citizenship, having been born to an American mother and father, but on Greek soil. A United States passport for him had been found among Alex’s legal documents, so that was one hurdle down.

     However, Peter and El’s status as foster parents for the young child took a bit longer, with both of them being subjected to extensive background checks and intrusive interviews to determine their suitability. After all, they were diplomatically reminded, there was a vast fortune attached to this small orphan that unscrupulous people could try to exploit.

     Their home was inspected at length to determine that it was safe for a growing child, and that an appropriate personal space had been established for the boy. El had been a few steps ahead of that one by making their second bedroom into a child’s oasis with books, puzzles, stuffed animals and super hero decals on the wall. It was both cheerful and inviting, or at least El thought it was. She could only hope that it passed the test of a caseworker with a perpetual frown and tightly pursed lips.

     The tense waiting went on for weeks and weeks, with no promise of a letup in sight. Peter and El were beyond frustrated. Peter nagged Mr. Papageorgiou constantly until the poor man gently told him that things move slowly on their little island, and that Peter needed to have patience. Peter inundated him with questions about the child….…what was he like, was he healthy, how was he coping with his mother’s death? The polite lawyer explained that Neal had been staying with a family on the island, and he would try to find out more details so that he could relate them to an anxious Peter. The surrogate family did not have a phone, and didn’t speak English, so Peter’s request to speak with them directly met a dead end.

      Eventually, Mr. Papageorgiou took pity on the frustrated agent and obtained a sketchy, if brief, report from the family when he had the opportunity to visit them and Neal. He told Peter that the boy appeared healthy, and his immunization records that Alex had filed away were up to date. He was a quiet child and appeared to be very bright, able to speak several languages besides English and Greek. There were numerous entries in his passport that listed places that he had been with his mother. Perhaps the little child had picked up French, Spanish and Portuguese while visiting those countries, the attorney postulated.

     “Children’s minds are like sponges,” the man laughingly told Peter. “They just absorb the knowledge and culture to which they are exposed.” Peter hoped that was all that little Neal had been exposed to while with his mother in these foreign countries. He sincerely hoped that Alex had not had a nefarious reason to be in any of these places, and had taken along an innocent toddler on the forays.

     The Greek family claimed that Neal was an obedient little boy, who asked them each night to find his mother. They weren’t sure what to tell him. They didn’t know if it was their place to inform him of the terribly devastating news, or if he would even understand. Peter and El’s hearts ached a little more.

     Finally, every last hoop had been jumped through, every last “T” crossed and “I” dotted. The Burkes had been approved to care for little Neal George Caffrey Jr! A relieved and jovial Mr. Papageorgiou arranged to have an associate from his law firm accompany the child on the long flight from Athens to New York City. He would arrive late this afternoon, and Peter and El were over the moon.

     El changed clothes twice, finally settling on what she considered casual -- homey jeans and a soft blue sweater. Peter wanted to look unintimidating to a four year old, so he, too, was in jeans and a gray pullover. Even Satchmo, much to his dismay, had been given a bath in anticipation of little Neal’s homecoming. When the doorbell rang shortly after 5 PM, Peter, with El by his side, eagerly swung the front door open.              

     A tall, olive-skinned man immediately identified himself as Demetri Andreas, an associate of the long, tongue-twisting name of the Greek law firm of which Mr. Papageorgiou was the senior partner. He held a battered valise in his hand and had a small waif beside him. Peter immediately shook the associate’s hand and affirmed that he was Peter Burke and that this was his wife, Elizabeth. Peter’s eyes darted toward little Neal. He couldn’t help but notice how the child had startled when Peter had introduced himself. The four-year-old now stood ramrod stiff with an anxious look on his face, never meeting either Peter or Elizabeth’s eyes.

     There would never be any doubt that this was Neal’s child. He was beautiful -- a miniature copy of his father, with a fair complexion and thick dark brown curls that trailed down to frame a perfect little round face. Peter knew that when he matured and the chiseled planes of that face took on adulthood, those high cheekbones, that thin, straight nose and those delicately arched brows would be mesmerizing. The kicker was the startling pair of blue topaz-colored eyes framed by curling dark lashes. Peter saw nothing of Alex in him. If only Neal were here to see his marvelous creation, a masterpiece that outshone any of those fantastic works of art that he used to forge.

     Peter and El graciously asked the Greek escort into their home, but he declined their invitation to stay for dinner and explained that he had a turn-around flight scheduled in the next few hours and needed to return immediately to the airport. He handed Peter a packet containing all of little Neal’s legal and medical information, spoke briefly in Greek to Neal, and then hastily departed.

 


	2. Looking For Answers

     It was only El’s gentle coaxing that got Neal as far as the couch. He still had not uttered a word, and continued to remain stiff and tense. When her soft questions went unanswered, she made herself stop hovering, gave the poor little guy some space, and went to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. With a raised eyebrow at Peter, she signaled her husband the unspoken warning to proceed carefully. Maybe Neal was simply tired and overwhelmed. Perhaps Peter would have more success.

     Such was not the case. If anything, Neal seemed to be more nervous in Peter’s sole presence. Now the federal agent was at a loss as to what the right next step was. Patience, he reminded himself. This little person had been plucked from his home, was missing his mother, had taken a transatlantic flight with a stranger, and now found himself marooned with two more mysterious strangers. What had he been told? Did he know that his mother was dead? Did he know that he was now going to live with the mysterious strangers? This whole scenario was uncharted territory. Peter had more questions than answers at this point.

     Satchmo, with a dog’s natural intuitiveness, sensed the little newcomer’s fear and took it upon himself to help comfort this small human. He slowly made his way to Neal’s side and pushed his nose under the child’s tightly clenched fist. Then he laid his warm, furry head on Neal’s lap and the four-year-old seemed to find some solace in stroking the big dog’s ears. This was the silent scene until El called them in to dinner. She had made comfort food—or at least what she thought may be comfort food for a youngster. The savory smell of her meatloaf filled the house, and she had accompanied that with homemade macaroni and cheese. Neal picked up his fork and merely pushed the food around on his plate. Peter noted that not one bite made it into his mouth.

     “Neal,” Peter began with quiet authority in his voice, “El worked hard to prepare this special welcome meal for you. You should be polite and eat some of it so that you don’t hurt her feelings.”

     Big, round blue eyes dared to look solemnly up at Peter. Obediently, he then speared a few elbow macaroni and put them into his mouth. It wasn’t a lot, but it was a start. He also drank half of his glass of milk. It seemed that Peter had only won a small skirmish. The war to win Neal over completely loomed precariously ahead.

     “Maybe he’s just too tired to eat,” El made excuses. “Sweetie, would you like to go up and see your room?”

     Without a word, Neal slipped from his chair and dragged the heavy valise to the bottom of the steps. Peter relieved him of that, and the three made their way up the stairs to what had become Neal’s new room. Once inside, the child didn’t look around with any interest. He simply crawled onto the bed, turned his back to them, and closed his eyes. El’s fantasy of giving him a bath, getting him into new Spiderman pajamas and reading him a bedtime story dissolved into fragments, and she was on the verge of tears. This was so not how this was supposed to go. Peter put comforting arms around her shoulders, turned on the tiny nightlight and led her from the room.

     “It will get better,” he promised his wife. But would it? Peter knew nothing about children. This was going to be a trial by fire. It was definitely not going to be easy, but then nothing connected to his former CI had ever been easy. Peter should be used to challenges thanks to the departed conman, who made testing Peter’s patience his forte.

     Peter and El retired early themselves, the anxiety of the situation with Neal wearing them down to exhaustion. Around midnight, El awakened from a restless sleep and went to check on Neal. The bed was empty! She hastily awakened Peter, and they both clamored down the stairs to search the rest of the house. They found Neal curled up in Satchmo’s dog bed, sound asleep, his little arms clinging to the Lab’s furry neck. Gently, Peter picked him up without awakening him and put him back in his own bed. To Peter and El’s dismay, this became a nightly occurrence, and after three stress-filled repetitions, Peter finally relented and allowed Satchmo to sleep beside Neal in his bed. At least the kid had bonded with someone in their house, even if that someone had four legs, a perpetually wagging tail and a protective, nurturing instinct.

     Neal still had not spoken a word. He continued to be particularly on edge and guarded around Peter. He still ate next to nothing, and he slept most of the time, taking long naps during the afternoon, and retreating to his bed early at night. In desperation, Peter consulted the in-house FBI psychiatrist for any insights into Neal’s reclusive and puzzling behavior.

     “Wow! Kids are really tough to figure out,” said Dr. Tremblant, whose office was on the 15th floor of the Federal Building. “That’s why I went into adult criminal behavior as my area of expertise. Try asking me the easy questions about serial killers or arsonists, why don’t you!” Then he canned the sarcasm and took pity on Peter when the agent stared at him with beseeching, bewildered eyes.

     “Look, Peter, from what you have told me, this poor kid is in the midst of a major trauma and upheaval in his life. It will take him time to process it all. But kids are more resilient than adults may believe. You just have to be patient and wait for him to approach you at his own pace.”

     “Well his pace is that of a turtle,” commented Peter. “He sleeps almost all the time. What normal, healthy four-year-old lacks energy?”

     The psychiatrist could well understand Peter’s frustration. “When kids are frightened or hurting, sometimes sleep is their means of coping. It’s a defense mechanism. They just have to shut their eyes and then they can shut out the world and its scary dangers as well. Listen, Peter, I’m not the expert that you should be talking to right now. I promise that I will do some research and get you the names of some top-notch specialists in pediatric psychology. Just give me a day or two.”

     During that first week, Peter put aside his pride and his trepidation, and resorted to calling Mozzie and asking him to visit. Maybe the quirky little guy who was raised in an orphanage could make some headway into coaxing Neal from his shell. Mozzie took Neal to the park along with a miniature chess set. It appeared that the complex game of strategy was well within the realm of Neal’s capability. Mozzie knew right away that this small one was Neal’s progeny—or what he termed as Neal’s “mini-me!” He told Peter as much when they returned home and Neal went off to bed for his daily nap. Elizabeth was out shopping, so Mozzie and Peter sat together at the kitchen table to confer.

     “There’s no need for DNA testing, Suit. He’s the real deal—a chip off the old block. You are going to have your hands full with that one. Can he draw? Have you given him a set of paints yet? Does he like to work with Play-Doh and sculpt things? Maybe he needs a magic kit so that he can develop his hand/eye coordination and his dexterity.”

     Peter simply sighed tiredly. “I don’t know if he has any artistic ability, and I’m certainly not giving him a deck of cards to encourage slight of hand. All I would like to know is, did you get him to talk to you? Did you have a conversation with him with actual words and not an alien mind meld?”

     "Well, no,” Mozzie finally admitted. “But I’d like to keep trying. Patience is the key. ‘ _A handful of patience is worth a bushel of brains_.’ That’s an old Danish proverb in case you’re interested, Suit!”

     Peter had been hearing that word “patience” so often that he was out of patience with it. He determined that tomorrow he would call one of the names that Dr. Tremblant had given him and make an immediate appointment.

     El returned shortly after Mozzie’s departure and busied herself in the kitchen. Peter went into archeologist mode and retrieved the case file that the FBI had amassed over the years on Alexandra Hunter. Maybe there was a clue in the pages somewhere that would afford him some insight into Neal’s fears. It was a long shot, but he was at his wit’s end. Gazing at the small glossy photograph of Alex that was paper-clipped to the front of the file, he wished that she could send him some sort of ethereal sign to let him know how to reach her son.

     Finally, he took a break and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When he returned, he saw that Neal had come downstairs. The kid jumped almost a foot when he saw Peter, and hastily hid his hands behind his back. Peter’s brow furrowed in suspicion, and he kicked into immediate agent mode.

     “What do you have, Neal? What are you hiding behind your back? Let me see it!”

     Neal just kept backing away from Peter, fear written all over his face. Peter didn’t see fear; he saw guilt and grasped the boy by the shoulder, pulling his small hands to the forefront. Clutched in Neal’s fist was Alex’s photo, which Peter carefully pried from the child’s hand. What happened next was very unexpected and frightening. Neal flew into a rage, hitting and kicking at Peter, trying to retrieve the photograph of his mother. He shrieked like a banshee, “Give it back! Give it back! I want my mother! I want my mother!”

     Peter grabbed him and tried to capture the flailing arms and legs, but Neal was like a slippery baby seal, sliding from his grasp, screaming at the top of his lungs and pummeling Peter with his small fists. El had run in from the kitchen and stood open mouthed at the tableau before her. Peter was afraid that Neal was going to hurt himself with his wild punches and uncoordinated kicks, so he did the only thing that he could. He picked him up, captured the child’s arms within his own, and pulled him tight to his chest. Being restrained only fueled the over-the-top tantrum, and the screaming grew louder and the struggles more desperate. Peter sat down in the armchair and held his captive tightly, rocking and murmuring soft soothing words until the child simply ran out of steam after a long ten minutes, sagging in his embrace.

     Neal was still breathing heavily, sweat-drenched hair adhering to the nape of his pale neck, but the exertion had knocked the fight out of him. He lay limp in Peter’s arms, and appeared to have simply fallen asleep again. El had her hands on her face in shock at what she had witnessed. She bent to pick up the now creased photo of Alex from the floor. Tears were streaming down her face as she spoke quietly to her husband.

     “We have to do something, Peter,” she pleaded. “This child is hurting and we can’t seem to help him no matter what we try,” she finished forlornly.

     “Tomorrow, El, we’ll take him for a psychiatric appointment with a physician who specializes in traumatized kids. I promise you, Hon, I will not give up on him. I owe it to his father to make this right!” Peter was adamant. He said it like a mantra…… **_“_** _I will make this right_ _!”_


	3. Trial By Fire

 

     Peter and El tucked Neal into his bed early that night next to Satchmo. He had never awakened after his recent outburst. They, themselves, couldn’t fall asleep, being too keyed up to rest properly. Around 11PM, Satchmo appeared at the threshold to their room. He stood just outside the door and whimpered. When Peter had trained Satchmo as a puppy, the Lab knew that the upstairs was off limits. However, with Neal’s arrival, Satch had gained a bit of leeway, but he was wise enough not to take undue advantage. Right now, Satchmo’s distressed whining unnerved Peter, who suspected that something was wrong. He hastily got up to follow the dog into Neal’s room. The child was tossing and turning on his bed and moaning. He wouldn’t rouse when Peter shook him slightly. El had followed, and, after taking one look at Neal’s flushed face, immediately retrieved the tympanic thermometer from the bathroom. When it beeped at 104.8, she was beside herself with panic.

     “Peter, I’ve read in the child care book that kids can spike high fevers at the drop of a hat, but those high temperatures can cause them to have febrile seizures. We need help for Neal now!” Elizabeth was far from calm.

     Peter didn’t need any urging. They hastily put on clothes, bundled Neal into a warm comforter, and drove to the closest hospital, breaking all speed limits along the way. Once there, they were quickly diverted to the pediatric emergency room where Neal was taken away to be examined by a team of nurses and doctors.

     There was a long, heart-wrenching wait that saw Peter pacing and El picking at her cuticles. Finally, a middle-aged man in blue scrubs, white lab coat, and the prerequisite stethoscope draped around his neck, joined them. He introduced himself as Dr. Rosenstein, head of the pediatric department. He had been asked to consult on Neal’s case by the resident who was on call, and who had first examined the little boy. After the doctor’s inquiry about their parental status, Peter quickly provided the documentation proclaiming himself and El as Neal’s legal guardians with power of attorney for all health care issues. He also explained that Neal had only been with them for a week, having arrived just a little over seven days ago from Greece. With that out of the way, the physician led them to a small room and apprised them of the situation that had necessitated Neal’s admittance as a patient.

     “I like to proceed slowly and in a logical order when I give information to distraught parents,” he explained gently, “so, please, bear with me.”

     “First, and foremost, let me assure you that Neal is stable at this time. However, he is a very sick little boy. This evening he presented to us with a very high fever, a symptom brought on by infection and dehydration, and which we dealt with immediately by starting hydrating intravenous fluids and anti-pyretic suppositories. The fever is now starting to come down.

     The bloodwork that we analyzed showed a highly elevated white cell count that would indicate that Neal is septic from an unknown infection. Our job at that point was to find the source of that infection by ruling out where it was not present. A chest x-ray showed no evidence of pneumonia. Throat cultures and urine cultures are pending, but we saw no signs of blood or pus in the urine, or redness in the throat. We even performed a lumbar tap to rule out meningitis. The spinal fluid was clear, so that was a relief. Eventually, what we did find was an advanced otitis media, or ear infection to the layperson, with ruptures of both eardrums. We then performed an MRI of the head which revealed a severe case of pan-sinusitis that apparently has been fulminating for quite awhile.”

     At the appalled looks on Peter and El’s faces, the doctor hastened to reassure them that the infection had started long before Neal had arrived into their care. “Did he mention any pain or discomfort in his ears, face or head? Being a passenger in a plane with the changes in cabin pressure must have been excruciating for the little guy. It is most likely the culprit behind the ruptured tympanic membranes.”

     Peter looked embarrassed when he admitted that Neal had been refusing to speak. He did tell Dr. Rosenstein that the child was listless and slept a great deal of time, but they had attributed that, in their ignorance, to depression from being torn from his home and missing his deceased mother.

     The kind physician smiled. “Children can be enigmas sometimes, and it can be a guessing game. They also have high pain thresholds and can endure what would send an adult over the edge. Luckily, they tend to heal faster than their adult counterparts, and bounce back quicker. That’s why I love my job. Kids look as if they’re literally on death’s doorstep one day, and the next they are dragging their IV poles to the playroom to do crafts with the volunteers. I get a lot of ‘bang for my buck’ when I treat children!”

     Peter certainly understood why this gentle, empathetic man dealt with children; it must have been his true calling to deal with those whom he appreciated so well. He also had a bedside manner that made you feel better in the worst of circumstances.

     “To continue,” the pediatrician began the narrative yet again, “we started Neal on intravenous doses of antibiotics to combat the infection, as well as corticosteroids to reduce some of the inflammation and swelling. However, we need to intervene a bit more aggressively to prevent the infection from spreading to the meninges, the outer covering of the brain. Meningitis is a real possibility from an infection of this magnitude, and something we need to try to avoid at all costs. To that end, I will need your permission to anesthetize Neal so that some of the thick, infected mucus can be drained from the sinus cavities and the Eustachian tubes. We would then insert tympanostomy tubes into his ears to keep the canals open and provide a patent route for the drainage to continue unimpeded on its own.

     If all goes well, after a course of IV antibiotics and a follow-up x-ray in about seven days, Neal can most likely return home with you. If he responds to treatment as I suspect he will, there should be no residual problems with his hearing. As for his speaking, well I can’t guarantee anything there. However, if he feels better, he just might want to give that a try.”

     Peter felt somewhat relieved with a definitive answer about the problem. He was still very worried, but sometimes you just had to put your faith in the competence of others. He signed the necessary permissions for the upcoming surgery, and the rest of the night was spent with his wife on hard plastic chairs enduring endless cups of stale, bitter vending machine coffee.

 

**********

 

     It was another waiting game in the morning when Neal was wheeled off on a pint-sized stretcher to the operating room for the procedure. When he was later brought back to the room, he looked both pale and pitiful, and it broke their hearts to see him that way. They spoke to him in soft, comforting tones, but the child was woozy and only awoke for a few minutes at intervals during the day. His fever still raged from time to time, and the nurses continued to treat the elevations as needed.

     When Elizabeth departed the hospital that first evening, she had hurriedly taken the small, wrinkled picture of Alex to a specialty print shop before they closed for the night. They worked their magic with Photoshop to erase the traumatic creases and produced a beautiful 8x10 picture that she placed in a simple ivory frame. It now stood on Neal’s bedside table, the very first thing that he would see each time he awakened. She also had a smaller picture made into a key ring, just the right size for a child’s hand. Then she dashed to the toy store where she purchased a small, soft plush Lab. In the morning, she placed the stuffed animal carefully under the sleeping child’s arm.

     The pediatric unit of this hospital was extremely parent-friendly. They encouraged Moms and Dads to stay at the bedside, and the window seat provided a bed of sorts for at least one parent to spend the night. Peter and Elizabeth took turns, with El manning the day shift, and Peter wedging himself uncomfortably onto the window seat at night. They never wanted Neal to wake up alone.

     After the first forty-eight hours, Neal seemed to have turned a corner in his fight against the infection. The antibiotics had kicked in to work their therapeutic magic, and he was more alert and his color was better. He still ate little, but docilely drank the apple juice and the milk shakes that came with his meal trays. He continued to say almost nothing, just shaking or nodding his head when asked questions. Occasionally, there was a soft “thank you” to a nurse who had brought him something.

     Peter and El had gotten into the habit of meeting in the hospital cafeteria early in the morning for coffee before Neal woke up, and before Peter went to work. They would give each other any news from their “shift” at Neal’s bedside. When El returned to the Pediatric unit on the third morning, Neal’s day nurse stopped her in the hallway with a cheery hello. “Hi there! I’m glad you’re back. Neal’s awake and has been asking for you.”

     El’s heart sank. Neal had probably been asking for his mother, and she didn’t want the last scene Neal had made when he wanted his mother to be played out again while he was still so sick.

     “I’m not his real mother,” she told the nurse sadly. “I’m only his guardian now because his birth mother is recently deceased. I’m not even sure that he is aware of that. You see, he has only been with my husband and I for the last ten days, and he hasn’t really opened up to us.”

     The nurse’s expression was compassionate. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burke, but I got the distinct impression that he meant you.”

     Elizabeth looked skeptical, so the wise nurse continued, “You know, the word ‘mother’ can mean a lot of things. Yes, it is the term for a woman who gives birth to an offspring, but it can also mean the loving, caring person who cries when he hurts, and sits and worries at his bedside day after day. It can be the person who kisses his forehead at night to feel for any fever before she relinquishes her sentry duty to her husband. She can be the one who wipes away the drainage from his nose, and encourages him to finish his milk. She is the one who loves unconditionally regardless of the reaction that she gets. Somewhere in that little brain of Neal’s, he knows that you cherish and love him. Kids have a special innate sense about that. Trust me that I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen it all, and then some, working here.” She gave El’s shoulders a squeeze and went on her way.

     El entered Neal’s room with trepidation. He was, indeed, awake. The key ring with Alex’s picture was in one hand while he stroked the plush Lab with the other. She sat down carefully in the rocker next to the bed and smiled. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here when you woke up, Neal. I hope that you weren’t scared,” she began carefully, mentally maneuvering her way through a possible emotional mine field.

     When he simply stared at her and didn’t answer, she tentatively held out open arms to him. There was a bit of hesitation, but to her delighted amazement, Neal crawled carefully into her lap and molded his little body into hers. She slowly rocked him, trying not to let him feel the tears that fell from her eyes. They stayed that way until breakfast arrived later in the morning. Afterwards, a volunteer came prepared to whisk him off to the playroom for a session of arts and crafts. El decided to give the child some space, so she told him that she was going to the cafeteria to get a coffee and would be back soon. Neal gave her a nod to let her know that he was okay with that plan.

     It was the fastest cup of coffee that El ever drank. She was back in Neal’s room well before he returned carrying a watercolor picture of what was, most assuredly, Satchmo. The painting was quite good, with details and shading. Neal had definitely inherited his father’s artistic genius. When El made a fuss over his work of art, Neal timidly held it out to her and said softly, “I made it for you.” Elizabeth hugged the child and damn if the tears didn’t start again. She had never been such a blubbering fountain until this little person had come into her life.

     “Are you sad?” Neal asked with concern.

     “No, Sweetie. This gift just made me very happy and girls sometimes cry when they are happy.”

     “Oh,” was the sum total of his answer. Then he climbed up into bed for his nap without another word on the subject.

     That evening when Peter appeared after work, El was jubilant as she told him of the subtle yet definite thawing in Neal’s attitude. At their morning conference just twelve hours later, Peter looked dejected, saying Neal was still stiff and rigid around him. “It’s almost as if he’s afraid of me, El. He still won’t talk to me and I’m hesitant to push him.”

     El tried to allay Peter’s worry. “Hon, you know that Alex was a single mother raising her son alone. There probably wasn’t a man in Neal’s life, so he is most likely unsure how to act around a father figure. Let’s just give it a bit more time. I’m sure he’ll warm to you soon.”

 

 


	4. Finally Getting Answers

 

 

     The next morning when Neal awakened, his eyes went immediately to the photograph of Alex on his night table. El, seated in the small room’s rocking chair, once again felt that familiar ache of helplessness. She decided that maybe it was time to address the dreaded issue. Perhaps Neal would finally talk to her and voice his fears and confusion.

     “You must miss your mother very much, Neal, and that must make you very sad.”

     The child slowly focused on El’s face. She had to strain to hear his next words. “My Mommy would come for me if she could, but she can’t ‘cause she’s in heaven.”

     El, unsure of how Neal had come to this conclusion, asked hesitantly, “Did someone tell you that, Neal?”

     The forlorn little boy shook his head.

     “Then why do you think that she’s in heaven, Sweetie?” El was treading hesitantly, walking a high wire without a net, it seemed.

     At first, she didn’t think that he was going to respond. Slowly, she climbed into bed beside him so that she wasn’t looming over him, hanging onto every word. Eventually she was rewarded for her patience.

     “My Mommy told me that my Daddy couldn’t come to me because he was in heaven, so I think that Mommy is there, too. ‘Cause she would never just leave me all alone on purpose,” he added with a child’s clarity of faith.

     El was astounded that Alex had addressed the issue of little Neal’s father and his death a year ago. “What exactly did she tell you about your Daddy?”

     Eventually, Neal responded in a quiet whisper. “She told me that he lived far away and had been put in a dungeon for a long while. I know what that is ‘cause Mommy used to read the story of _‘The Man in the Iron Mask’_ to me at bedtime. The hero in the story was put into the dungeon in the Bastille in France by a very mean man.”

     El marveled that the child’s voice took on a vague hint of a French accent as he spoke of the classic tale of the prisoner whose identity has always been cause for speculation.

     The little boy continued his narrative. “After awhile, that mean man let him out of the dungeon, but wouldn’t let him come to meet me. Then my Daddy died ‘cause he was a brave hero, and now he’s in heaven. I just know that Mommy is with him now, too.”

     At this point, El suspected that she knew the basis of Neal’s paralytic fear of her husband. “Did your Mommy ever tell you the mean man’s name?” She now sat slightly turned toward the child. If she hadn’t been able to see his face, she would never have been able to read the name that he mouthed silently…. “Peter Burke.”

     Wow! Finally ferreting out this bit of insight threw El for a loop. At first, she felt anger towards Alex for putting the onus of blame squarely on Peter. Then she calmly reasoned that having feelings of antipathy towards a dead woman would not help the current situation. She certainly would not disparage Alex in front of her grieving son. She would take this one step at a time, being as sensitive as she could. El placed a comforting arm around tense little shoulders and began what she hoped was the process of healing.

     “Neal, I think that you are a very smart little boy. You let yourself come to the conclusion that your mother is in heaven because you have used your head and your heart to figure it out on your own. You had to do that because nobody told you anything. You have been very brave and I am proud of you, just as I’m sure that your mother is proud of you now that she is in heaven, just as you thought. But you will always be able to keep her safely in your heart, so she’ll always be with you. And you will never be alone, Sweetheart, not as long as Peter, Satchmo and I are around to protect you and take care of you.”

     The tiny shoulders continued to be stiff and unyielding, but El plunged ahead. Nobody said this whole situation was going to be easy. “I knew your Daddy, Neal. He was my good friend, and you are so very much like him that it makes my heart happy when I am around you. He would have been so glad to have a son like you. He would have wanted to meet you, too, if he could have. I am thinking that maybe the message to him from your Mommy about you being born got lost, because there is just no way that he wouldn’t have come to see you and love you.”

     Neal just raised a skeptical eyebrow. It reminded El so much of the cynical looks that his father sometimes employed that El had to force herself to remember that she was talking to a four-year-old.

     “Neal, your Daddy was a kind, gentle and smart person, just as you are. I am so happy that I got to know him. And, like everybody else, he had to make choices every day, just as you make choices about what to eat, or what toy that you like best, or what color that you want to use in a drawing. Sometimes people do not always use all the information that they have stored in their brains to make the best choice about something in their life. Sometimes they think with their heart only, or they just do things without asking either their brain or their heart to help them decide. That’s not unusual. Later they wish that they had picked a different way to do things. Everybody makes choices that they sometimes wish that they hadn’t done. I’m sure that maybe you have made a choice in the past that your mother did not think was the best one. And that’s okay because we learn from our not so smart choices so that we can make better ones in the future.” El had no way to gauge what effect her words were having, but she intrepidly forged ahead anyway.

     “Peter knew your Daddy, too. He always liked him a lot, even when they disagreed about some choices. You don’t stop caring about someone just because you disagree with what they did. Anyway, your Daddy learned from his less than best choices because he had time to think things through in a kind of ‘time out.’ Peter knew that your father was sorry, and he liked your father so much that he wanted him by his side at work. Your Daddy wanted to be around Peter, too. So, he made a really good choice to help Peter in his job, and they became the best of friends.

     Peter and I miss your father very much, but having you with us now helps to heal the hurt in our hearts a bit. I can only hope that you will let us try to help make the hurt in your heart get better. We love you very much because you are your Daddy’s son, but mostly because you are you, and you are special to us. Peter wants so much to be your friend, too. Maybe you can let him tell you about all the adventures that he and your Daddy had together when he comes in tonight? That would make him feel so good to share those stories with you.”

     An infinitesimal shrug was all the answer that she got in return. But at least the door had been opened, if only just a crack. After breakfast, when Neal was taken again to the playroom, El quickly texted Peter with a very special and precise request. Later in the day while Neal napped, she went to the cafeteria and called Peter for a long talk.

 


	5. Forging Bonds

 

     That evening Peter appeared slightly later than usual for his night with Neal. He was carrying a mysterious package that he made a production of opening. Neal tried to appear disinterested, but still managed to slide quick glances under the fringe of his lashes. Peter took out an 8x10 double picture frame connected by a hinge. He removed Alex’s picture from the single frame and placed it on the left side of the double one. On the right side, he placed the tuxedoed “prom” picture of Peter and Neal taken right before the off-track betting sting was set in motion years ago. Without a word spoken, Peter then settled himself onto the window seat. He cleared his throat and asked, quite off-handedly, if Neal would like to hear about some of the really exciting cases that Peter and his father had worked on at the FBI. Neal merely raised one shoulder indifferently. Wow….this kid was going to be a tough audience, but Peter could tough it out, too.

     For the next hour, Peter embellished on his former partner’s impressive exploits, making him akin to a super hero with a fedora instead of a cape. He related a vivid account of Neal fencing with a real sword, and then it was tales of his extraordinary prowess of jumping from tall buildings and tramcars. He told the child of the hair-raising day that Neal had defused a bomb on an old German submarine, saving both of their lives in the process. He proudly recounted that it wasn’t the only time that he had saved Peter’s life. One time Peter had been poisoned, and it was only Neal’s quick thinking that saved his partner from certain death. He proudly boasted of Neal rescuing damsels in distress time and time again. When Peter’s throat became dry, he promised that he would continue the stories the following night, if Neal would like to hear more adventures. This time there was a definite positive nod of Neal’s little head.

     This ritual continued for the next three nights. Peter began to feel like Scheherazade telling tales from “A Thousand and One Nights.” They were always based on the truth, just made to appear a bit more magical for a four-year-old’s ears. Neal always quickly turned off the television when Peter had settled himself on the window seat, and Peter knew that he had captured the child’s interest and imagination. His dead partner’s past had become a bridge to a future with his son. If Peter managed to ultimately reach that child, he vowed that he would hold on tight and make things right. He constantly repeated his mantra..…. _“I will make things right.”_

     On that third night, Peter casually mentioned that Neal’s doctor had given the green light for him to be discharged in the morning. Peter watched Neal’s reaction, and, as expected, the little shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly and hitched a bit higher toward his ears. Neal had grudgingly tolerated Peter’s presence in the safe little bubble of the hospital setting. Now the child perceived that he was losing that safety net, and, once again, would be returning to a frightening existence with Peter front and center in that life.

     “Neal, look at me please,” Peter requested softly.

     Big, blue eyes eventually looked somewhere near Peter’s chin, but at least he now had the child’s full attention.

     “I realize that you must still be a bit afraid of me, and I’m sorry that you feel scared. Neal, I would never, ever do anything to hurt you. I am giving you my solemn promise on that, and I do not lie. El and I really want you to live with us and Satchmo in our home. Eventually, we want you to feel that it is your home, too. But if you are truly unhappy and continue to be afraid, I promise that I will find another place for you to go. El and I would let you go because we love you and want what’s best for you always. However, before you make that decision, I have a favor to ask. I really think that we still need some time to get to know each other better. Would you give us a little more time to do that? I’m asking you to hold off making a decision about staying with us for just a little while.”

     Peter then took out his small day planner from his pocket. He opened it to the current month and day. “Today is September 15th, Neal. Do you think that we could give our little experiment a month? Could we re-visit and talk about your decision on October 15th? Do you think that you will have enough time in one month to consider all the evidence in this case?” Peter asked facetiously.

     Finally, Neal actually looked into Peter’s eyes. “Okay,” was the terse reply. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He had achieved a reprieve to make this right!

 

**********

 

     The next morning, Neal and company made their way back to the Brooklyn townhome. With the treacherous infection now at bay, the child had more energy and a much better appetite. He still preferred El’s company, but he tolerated Peter with furtive sidelong glances instead of overt suspicion and fear. Peter considered that a win.

     Their home had slowly been transformed from neat and tidy to cluttered and cozy. They now possessed a treasure trove of children’s accoutrements throughout their living space. Besides the extensive collection of toys, there were drawing materials, paints, small canvases and even a child-sized easel tucked into a corner of the living room. Apparently, Neal loved to create small works of art, as had his father..….that is, when the conman wasn’t forging a masterpiece. Neal Jr’s masterpieces began to adorn the refrigerator, and El even framed quite a few that now took up wall space.

     Neal also loved to help El in the kitchen, and she allowed him to work the dough for homemade pizza and sift the flour for brownies made from scratch. He got good and dirty digging beside her in the backyard garden. He had a fascination for Legos and a knack for assembling them—the huge Lego “Death Star” ensconced in his bedroom was a testament to that! He relished board games, especially Chinese checkers, but was proficient at chess as well. Mozzie was his weekly opponent. Neal seemed to love the bespectacled man’s attention. Much to Peter’s chagrin, Mozzie brought Neal a magic kit!

     Peter made sure that he carved out time with Neal, too. Every evening after dinner, the two of them walked Satchmo to the dog park. Not much was said on these forays; Peter was taking this slow and not pushing the child. He bought Neal a small baseball glove, and each Saturday they practiced in the backyard, trying hard not to trample El’s chrysanthemums. Occasionally they went out for ice cream at the corner store. El gave Neal his bath at night, but it was Peter who insisted on reading the bedtime story, or, upon request, tell more tales that revolved around the child’s father. Peter was the one to tuck him into bed each night beside Satchmo, so Peter’s was the last face that the little boy saw before falling asleep.

     Weekends were spent in the park. With their hearts in their throats, Peter and El watched Neal scale the tall jungle gym with surprising agility time and again. A special Saturday was designated to go to the museum in the city to view dinosaurs. At the beginning of October, Neal and Peter sat side by side on the sofa watching the World Series. Peter nursed his beer while Neal sipped his apple juice.

     One evening Peter was home alone with Neal. El was out meeting with Yvonne who was managing Burke’s Premier Events during Elizabeth’s hiatus as a stay-at-home mom. Eventually, El hoped to return to her position on a part-time basis when Neal was more settled. Peter, ever perceptive, thought that the child seemed a bit apprehensive tonight, but he appeared to relax somewhat while he listened to the bedtime story. Peter thought that the boy was now fast asleep. Once more downstairs, Peter had dug out some pending FBI case files and was deep in his contemplation of the complex crimes when he felt a presence in the room. Looking up from the papers before him, he saw Neal standing very quietly off to the side of the dining room.

     Peter had not heard Neal descend the carpeted stairs in his little footed pajamas, and his brow creased in concern. “What’s wrong, Buddy? Did you have a bad dream? Do you feel sick?” He immediately checked for the telltale glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. Finding none of the worrisome signs, he asked again, “What’s wrong, Neal? What do you need?”

     “Today’s the day,” the solemn child eventually said in a small voice. “Today’s the 15th.”

     Peter closed his eyes for a second to collect himself. “You’re right, Champ, the date slipped my mind, and I’m sorry that I didn’t remember. It is an important date. We made a deal and we should stick to it. So……what have you decided?” Peter held his breath as he awaited the verdict.

     “I think,” the child began softly, “that maybe I’ll wait to make a decision. Can we talk about this on the 15th of next month?”

     Peter heart skipped a beat as he answered just as seriously, “I think that being cautious is a good idea. You may want to collect more evidence so that your decision is the right one. We can certainly put off that choice until next month.”

     That night, Peter continued the habit that he had acquired lately. He had a one-sided conversation in his mind with his former partner right before his eyes closed in sleep.

_“I think that I dodged the bullet this time, Neal. I think that he’s procrastinating because he still doesn’t completely trust me. But I’m going to make this right, Partner. I’m going to make this right.”_

     November brought brisk, invigorating weather—perfect for a drive to the country to a pumpkin farm. Peter and Neal negotiated a corn maze, and then Peter and Elizabeth heard the small boy giggle for the first time when a goat in the farm’s petting zoo began to nibble his shirttail. El and Neal made sticky apples later in the week, and collected autumn leaves from the park that they dipped in paraffin to preserve them. The child then arranged them as a collage on a large piece of poster board. Mozzie’s contribution to the season was helping Neal construct a scarecrow in the back yard that looked suspiciously like an alien from outer space.

      Peter did not forget the approaching 15th of the month. In his mind, he had begun referring to it as the “ides of the month.” Again, as before, little Neal was undecided and the pronouncement was deferred until December. Peter informed his former partner that night of the decision.

_“I think I may be wearing him down, Buddy. I’m still trying to make this right.”_

     In December, Mozzie insisted that he be allowed to take Neal to Rockefeller Center to see the colossal Christmas tree. They made an additional stop at the huge, well-known toy store in Manhattan. Instead of miniature trucks or action figures, Neal and Mozzie lugged home a child’s chemistry set. Peter just rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head in disbelief.

     For the first time, the Burke’s house took on an excessive, really over the top holiday décor. Peter thought the animated Santa was tacky, but wisely kept his mouth shut, especially after little Neal put off his “ides of the month” decision yet again.

 _“Neal, I’m feeling a bit more confident!”_ Peter told the phantom entity in his mind that night before a contented sleep claimed him.

     On Christmas morning, Neal shyly presented Elizabeth and Peter with his modestly wrapped presents. Apparently, Mozzie had managed to smuggle Neal to one of his safe houses during their weekly outings. No doubt utilizing Mozzie’s eclectic collection of paraphernalia, the child had fashioned his gifts from clay that had been painted and then fired in a kiln. El’s was a pretty accurate facsimile of some kind of flower—all pink with green leaves. As far as Peter could tell at first glance, his was a small white sphere that was slightly flattened on one side. Upon closer examination, he saw the meticulously placed stitching and realized that it was supposed to be a baseball. It was probably the best gift that he had ever received.

     The New Year loomed ahead with many months, all with a 15th day in them. The “ides of the month” actually became a ritual for Peter and Neal. No matter what was happening around them, they each made time that evening to address the issue. Neal now claimed that he was “still in the process of collecting more data to support his hypothesis before he reached a definitive conclusion.” Peter tried hard to keep a serious expression on his face. He was now more certain than ever that Neal was spending too much time around Mozzie! However, as weird as it seemed, those nights became a bonding time for the anxious FBI agent and his foster son.

     The months advanced with still no decision, and before they knew it, September was looming ahead once again. Neal’s pediatrician, who Peter and El trusted implicitly, mandated that all of his little patients be evaluated by a child psychologist before they entered kindergarten. This forward-thinking medical practitioner found that this was helpful in recognizing any learning disabilities at an early stage. If necessary, there could be intervention before a child was thrown into a situation where they may become frustrated because they had difficulties keeping up with their peers. After Neal’s evaluation, the pediatrician asked for a conference with Peter and Elizabeth.

     Dr. Rosenstein informed the nervous parents that all was well with Neal. The reason for the conference was to address the test scores that the child had achieved. His IQ hovered in the genius range, and his social acumen was well beyond his years. The pediatrician suggested that Neal could very well become bored in the regional elementary school, and suggested several advanced academies where the child would be challenged to reach his potential. He reassured them that these schools were not “baby think tanks,” as many detractors claimed, but rather well rounded institutions of learning where the children were exposed to the arts and sciences as well as encouraged to participate in various sports or hobbies that interested them. Neal would be educated at his own pace in an atmosphere where he would not be ridiculed because of his superior intellect.

     Peter and El investigated that avenue and chose one such school not very far from their home. The tuition was exorbitant, but Peter refused to take any money from Neal’s vast trust fund. This was something that he and El wanted to do for Neal on their own. That decision saw a tearful El and a stoic Peter standing anxiously outside the school’s doors that first day when they dropped off their child. He was clad in a tiny little blazer and tie with a Batman backpack strapped securely in place. Contained within that bag was an incongruous mixture of an iPad, a pencil box with crayons and paste, and his toy stuffed dog hidden deep within its depths. Later that afternoon, they picked up a jubilant little guy who claimed that he had made a “bazillion” new friends!

 


	6. Getting It Right

 

 

     As is true in everyone’s life, time seems to fly by without your awareness until you look back and wonder where the years have gone. Countless “ides of the month” passed—always acknowledged but never with any action taken. Life simply happened from day to day. Of course, there were the normal ups and downs of living and raising a child, but Peter and El met each challenge trusting their hearts instead of relying solely on the advice of child rearing primers. They evaluated the written word, but, ultimately, if it felt right, then that is how they handled a situation. At some point in that kaleidoscope of passing years, Peter became the touchstone in Neal’s life.

     It was Peter who helped construct the plywood backdrop for Neal’s school science fair project that won first prize in the contest. That blue ribbon joined the collection of others that were awarded for the artwork that he had entered in the academy’s yearly festival.

 _“Neal,_ _your son has definitely inherited your magnificent artistic talent as well as your smarts!”_   Peter told his dead partner that night before he fell into a contented sleep.

     It was Peter’s reassuring presence next to Neal when the twelve-year-old had to have his fractured arm placed in a cast after a vicious wipeout on his skateboard. It was Peter who commiserated with a broken-hearted young man when, at the impressionable age of fourteen, he was dumped by his first girlfriend.

 _“That girl is a frivolous little fool,”_ an indignant Peter told the boy’s father in his nightly musings. _“He deserves a lot better!”_

     It was Peter who intrepidly placed his life in jeopardy, displaying nerves of steel, when he taught Neal how to drive in the city. And it was the veteran FBI agent who fought off his own tears as he watched the boy weep when they had to ask a kindly veterinarian to put an aged, suffering Satchmo out of his misery.

     That night, Peter confessed to his CI, _“Neal, this was first time that I felt so completely powerless to stop his hurting.”_

     It was a jubilant Peter who informed his past partner about Neal’s prowess as a shortstop on the school’s baseball team.

_“Buddy, he’s a natural athlete. You should have seen him hit a triple-bagger homerun_ _that clinched the division championship for the team. You would have been so proud!”_

     Before they knew it, Neal was graduating from the private school academy. He had skipped a grade, and had avidly taken advanced college courses so that he already had two years’ credits under his belt. His voracious appetite for learning meant that he could achieve a bachelor’s degree by the time he was a mere nineteen years old. All of the East Coast “Ivies,” as well as other prestigious universities throughout the United States, were trying to lure him through their doors. They dangled full scholarships before him in an attempt to entice the boy to matriculate through their institutions.

     On graduation night, Peter and El sat proudly in the front row of seats in the school’s auditorium. They were joined by Mozzie, who was sporting a seersucker suit and red bow tie. Somehow, it looked natural on the eccentric little man. Of course, Neal had achieved the status of valedictorian, and they were fervent listeners as he gave a speech to his fellow classmates entitled “ _Choices_.”

     “We are all now facing a lifetime of making choices,” he began. “Tonight we will be leaving a cosseted environment of concerned teachers and loving parents to be on our own, in a world that requires us to move forward without their years of experience and awareness to guide us. We are now going to be expected to shoulder the responsibility for our own conduct, our own choices.

     Of course, it is important for each of us to use the empirical knowledge that we have learned and filed away in our brains to make an informed choice. However, another important facet of making a choice is getting in touch with our hearts. Does our choice seem right; can we live with it in the light of day?

     Sometimes we will forsake using both methodologies of head and heart, and simply rely on just one or the other as a resource. Sometimes we will be rash, and consult neither our brains nor our hearts and simply act impulsively. Unfortunately, in some instances, we will find that the choices that we have made are less than ideal. Perhaps then we will berate ourselves for being foolish or stupid. But that is a waste of time and effort. What we will need to do at that point in time is to admit to ourselves and to others that our choice was not the best one. We will have to accept the responsibility for our actions, and endure the consequences. Then, and only then, can we get up again, dust ourselves off and keep going—hopefully a bit wiser and stronger and in the right direction. We have been given the tools that we need for the journey. Let’s use them judiciously and make our parents and mentors proud that we have been in their lives.”

     Indeed, Peter did beam like a proud Papa, and El wiped away tears as she listened to a resurrection of the talk that she had with Neal so many years ago in that hospital room. He had really listened to her, apparently, and her heart swelled with love for her “son.” Even Mozzie surreptitiously swiped at his eyes with his pocket square.

     A mere two months later, in the middle of August, Peter and El drove a slightly anxious teenager several hours away to his chosen college. Peter was glad that Neal had decided against taking an offer from the esteemed West Coast schools who had tried to woo him. Boston was close enough that it was an easy destination by either car or train if he needed them. Even so, both parents knew that they were prime candidates for the dreaded “empty nest syndrome.”

     El fluttered around like a fussy mother hen, but Peter maintained a stiff upper lip as he helped Neal lug his belongings up three floors to the small dorm room that he would be sharing with an affable-seeming kid from Omaha. The trio shared a farewell dinner at a local pub, and soon it would be time to watch Neal turn around and walk away from them.

     As fate would have it, today was the 15th of the month. Neal reminded Peter of that as they stood together a short distance away from El. Instead of his noncommittal answer of the last thirteen years, this time Neal stuck his hand out to Peter, who grasped it in a firm handshake.

     “Thank you, Peter, for everything. I never would have found myself without you,” Neal whispered earnestly.

     Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at this apparition who looked exactly like his father when Peter had arrested Neal that first time in a storage locker in Manhattan. This young man even had the same voice as that of his father, the same dashing good looks, and the same Caribbean blue eyes. The scene was so eerie because it mimicked everything that had happened that long ago day down to the handshake and the words of gratitude. It was almost as if the absent conman stood in front of Peter now, and tears ran unashamedly down his cheeks. The Neal who faced him this evening on a college campus assumed that Peter was simply overcome with the emotion of letting go, and proceeded to take the handshake one step further, engulfing Peter in a warm hug.

     “Cowboy up, Peter!” Neal murmured fondly. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll be coming home for all the holidays, and the spring and summer breaks. And just so you know, I think that I’ve finally made a decision. I definitely want to stay!”

 

**********

 

     That night, instead of laying on his side of the bed with El, Peter found himself seated on a chair in Neal’s room. The double picture frame containing Alex’s picture as well as his and his CI’s was in his hands. He carefully folded one side back so that he was looking at “the prom” portrait only. Reverently, he ran his finger down the outline of his former partner’s face. It had been almost fifteen years since the picture had been taken, but Neal would always look like this in Peter’s mind. He would always be smiling and would never age. He was forever memorialized in a special moment in time, but that time had been far too brief. Peter was so thankful that he had experienced being drawn into this man’s ephemeral orbit, if only for a little while. It had changed him forever.

     Peter sighed, and for the first time spoke aloud to his partner.

     “I don’t know how you did it, Neal, but I have no doubt that you were the one to make this happen. Somehow, some way, you managed to bring this special human being to me. And he is truly beautiful, Neal, both inside and out. He is your ultimate masterpiece and I am humbled that you let me be a part of his life. Thank you for that. I will forever be grateful and treasure him for as long as I live.”

     With a tender smile on his face, Peter murmured, “This second time around, Buddy, I think I got it right!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has chosen to read this story and stay with it until the end. I’m sure the beginning synopsis may have scared off a lot of people. If you have been following me as an author, you know that this is quite different from what I usually write. However, I decided that I wanted to challenge myself by addressing a very delicate issue. I hope that you may have found it worthwhile.


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